The Withdrawal Job
by Morralls
Summary: There's more to becoming sober than twelve steps. The hardest obstacle Nate comes across isn't if he can quit drinking, but if he can forgive himself.


**Author's Note: I was watching the Twelve Step Job and wondering about when Nate gave up drinking. I decided that, since they never told the story of Nate trying to give up alcohol, I would. This is about Nate coming to terms with his son's death, and each chapter, which will be loosely based off each of the twelve steps, there is a corresponding flashback of Nathan losing his faith in what he believed in as he watched his son die. The story is about Nate's first year trying to be sober, and Sam's last year of life. Get the kleenex ready.**

**-Morralls**

_May 3, 2009_

Nate sat, losing a staring contest with a bottle of Jim Bean. A glass tumbler lay on its side on the table, the few drops of amber liquid left in it dripping out, ruining whatever papers were beneath it. He couldn't bring himself to care. If he were going to be honest with himself (and why he would do that, he didn't know), he would have to admit it. The eternal, infernal words that had damned more than one man and helped even more than that.

He wasn't sure he was ready for that kind of commitment just yet. He put it off, which is the worst thing you can supposedly do, but one of the few things that Nathan was good at.

The team had split up after a hesitant walk away, a strong pull holding them together, and because of that, a _need_ to spread out. Nate had no idea if he would ever see them again, and it was because of that fact that he could be sure he was doing this for _himself_, and no one else.

To put off verbalizing his death sentence even longer, he chose to think back to the start of it. The moment when not even _he_ could fight the truth anymore. "You haven't had a drink in forty eight hours. This is withdrawal." The smooth, rich accent came back to him as clearly as if she were speaking the words beside him. He had argued it with her, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what withdrawal was, knew what it meant to go through it. He had seen the signs before, and he couldn't ignore them in himself what with Sophie throwing them in his face. He didn't allow his mind to think the words that he was still trying to come to terms with.

Instead, he chose to continue stalling. He chose to think back to when it started.

_Nate watched, horrified, as his little boy fell for no apparent reason. He caught his son's limp frame, cradling the seven year old in his arms. "Maggie!"_

_He lifted his son from the ground easily - Sam had always been small - as Maggie appeared in the doorway, never having heard her husband sound that terrified and desperate. Her already pale face turned white at the sight of their unconscious son, and she didn't stop to ask what happened as she reached for the phone, calling an ambulance. _

_Sam came to shortly after the EMTs arrived, with an IV in his arm and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Maggie and Nate were both crammed in the back of the ambulance, each holding one of their son's hands. Sam's eyes, so like Nate's, were wide and scared, flickering to his father first. "Daddy?" His voice was quiet, and muffled by the plastic over his face. _

_Nate offered his little boy a smile, squeezing the tiny hand. "I'm here Sammy."_

"_Daddy, what happened?"_

_Nate bit his lip, not wanting to lie. Luckily, Maggie stepped in for him. "We don't know, baby." She murmured, rubbing his arm gently. "But we're going to find out. It'll all be okay. I promise."_

_Sam looked at his mother. "You sure?"_

"_Hey, buddy." Nate murmured. "She promised, didn't she? Your mommy always keeps her promises."_

Nate reached for the bottle of Jim Bean with one shaking hand, righting the tumbler with the other. He poured some of the alcohol into the glass, his breathing ragged from the pain of a simple memory. He lifted the glass to his lips and hesitated. He shouldn't, he knew, but right now, it was hard to remember why.

His father. He didn't want to be like his father. Jimmy Ford was a good man, but Nathan had grown up feeling like a stranger in his own house. He remembered one Christmas morning, waking his father up early, as children are wont to do. He remembered watching his father make coffee, watched him spike it with Irish whiskey. Nate had never told his father that the Christmas had been ruined. Nate remembered the guilt of knowing Sam saw that too. His father had never conquered his addiction. Nate wouldn't be like his father. He stood and emptied the tumbler down the sink, though he couldn't quite bring himself to empty the bottle as well. He resumed his seat and forced himself to delve back into painful memories.

_Nate sat at the kitchen counter, long after Sam had gone to bed. Maggie was in their room, with the lights off, though whether she was asleep or not, he didn't know. A bottle of Jim Bean was sitting on the counter, missing a third of its contents, and Nate looked up as he heard a soft sigh. Maggie was standing in the doorway, watching him. _

"_Nate..." _

"_Maggs... he's our son."_

"_The doctor said that he has a chance." _

"_He's in stage three already, Maggie, and how often do children beat leukemia?"_

_Nate watched his wife come over to him, silently putting the bottle away, then came to curl herself into his arms. "We'll be okay, Nate. We'll make it through this," she murmured. He tightened his arms around her to stop them from shaking. "Please, Nate. Come to bed. It's late, and I can't stand the idea of you sitting alone in the dark, drinking your problems away. Tomorrow, we'll see what we can do to help him. We'll get through this," she murmured again. She kissed him softly, needing his comfort as much as he needed hers, and took his hand, leading him slowly out of the kitchen and into their bedroom. She pulled him down beside her and snuggled up close against his chest, letting him wrap her securely in his arms._

Nate held the bottle in his hand, willing himself not to pour it, not to drink it. There were better ways to come to terms with his lot in life than medicating himself with alcohol, as Sophie described it. He just had to do it. He considered. He knew that it stemmed from Sam, being diagnosed, from losing his son. He wouldn't win here, wouldn't be able to, with every street corner harboring yet another painful memory of his son. He needed to be somewhere other than the city where his life was destroyed. He thought of his father, the bar that Jimmy Ford liked to go to. John McRory's Place. As he recalled, there was a set of apartments above the bar. He nodded to himself, decided. He would fight this battle in the same place his father had. He would go back home, to Boston.

Now that his mind was made up, there was only one thing left to do. He emptied the bottle of Jim Bean down the sink and placed his hands on the back of the chair, looking at his feet. Four words shouldn't have been so hard to say, and he had better control than this. So it was that Nathan Ford gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and spoke the eternal words to an empty room.

"I have a problem."


End file.
